Ivy

at

least

there’s ivy –

wrap yourself in it

cling tight to trees, let blackbirds build nests

in your pockets. When daffodils are silent

and ewes refuse to give up their loads, find ivy.

No beginning                   or end, ivy

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Saving daisies

Mown daisies recover well in water

where some survive for several

days, propping one

another up in

egg cups

unsure

if

they

are

d

o

o

m

e

d

or saved

 

Doomed daisies or saved daisies?  I used to think cut daisies were doomed, but have since amazingly discovered…

(after being in the company of an overly empathetic  person for who the demise of such daisies would cause too much distress)

…that these fragmented flowers can find their way back out to the lawn, when conditions have improved sufficiently to support daisy life again (usually following a few days), and in fact, that egg cups simply provide a means of life support…

“All the daisies are saved!” I’d proclaim, as the (newly sprouted) specimens swayed cheerfully upon their stalks, while I attempted to stifle a mounting worry that I hadn’t replaced the cover firmly enough on the compost bin… and that my daisy resurrection ruse might be rumbled…

But the relieved smile of my child shone brighter than a saved daisy on a sunny day, and that’s why, for a while, no severed daisy ever perished in my garden. I was the secret saviour of daisies, a mini miracle worker.

Sometimes people still tell me that autistic children don’t feel empathy…

 

 

 

Schneeglöckchen

So early this year she

announces to nobody but a blackbird

who rattles his response. Candlemas bells and not

even Christmas. Crouching and wind-curved, she tilts a milky bud

towards her, half-blind, tight-lipped, silent in the leaf-strewn mud.

No longer seeking hope or the promise of spring, she considers

picking one, taking it in – to disprove her mother’s foreboding

of flowers for the dead. Besides, she doesn’t fear anymore, no,

sees nothing to dread from endless slumbers, snug in a clay bed.

February fair-maids, dingle-dangles, dewdrops, death’s flower.

Granny’s schneeglöckchen growing greenest of green, ringing in

spring, but this soon – with autumn leaves unscorched by frost,

unsucked by worms? Winter’s not winter anymore

she mutters, then squints at the sky, waiting

for the blackbird to offer

his reply.

Collective nouns

 

I’ve seen
starlings murmurate, heard exaltations of larks
witnessed crows plot murder in lawless corners of the park.
I’m told owls hold parliament because they’re clever and also wise…
and I’ve gawped as gulps of swallows flee from fading summer skies.
I’ve braved bellowings of bullfinches, watched gnats pulsate in clouds
but as a mere human being I mostly hang
around in crowds

I’d prefer
to skulk with foxes, perhaps party with the jays
chase charms of glowing goldfinches, shiny as sun rays.
Unleash unkindness with ravens, join the herons’ iron siege
deal deceit with lying lapwings, help scything swifts to screech.
I’d tangle with a knot of toads, if it were allowed –
anything is better than
being in a crowd.

 

 

Squirrels

Squirrels get up early when the grass is damp with dew,

they skip around on tiptoes so their paws don’t get soaked through.

They’re busy seeking conkers stashed safely since September

but squirrels seem quite scatty, and usually can’t remember…

where they carried conkers to on golden autumn days –

did they slip them under stones, or drag them to their dreys?

And so when spring has sprung, when the weather’s wet and warm,

they’ll be skipping round horse chestnut trees sprouting in my lawn.